The Archivist
by dancingkatz
Summary: Vignettes from the life of Tenerië, Archivist of Minas Tirith and sometime teacher of Faramir. Third and Fourth Age. Faramir & OFC. No romance.
1. Interruption

Interruption

"What are you doing?"

Tenerië finished pressing the metal leaf into the gesso before looking up to see who had invaded her workroom. The boy that stood hanging in the doorway couldn't have been more than seven or eight years old but his face was alight with curiosity.

"I'm fixing a book. You're not supposed to be down here, you know."

The child ignored the asperity of her tone and drifted across the short distance between the door and her scriptorium. "You can fix books?"

She sighed. Usually, when she used that particular tone of voice people went away. It was just her luck to have attracted some urchin who was immune to its effects. "Yes, I can fix books--and don't touch anything!" she snapped as he fetched up against the small table that held her supplies.

She watched his gaze move over the collection of items with fascination--knives, an awl, linen thread, pots of glue (both fish and rabbit hide), the little folder of various sheets of finely beaten metal leaf, scraps of parchment and that new-fangled paper that Anlir was raving about, and an oddly shaped piece of agate that she used for burnishing--then turn his gaze to the folio she was trying to restore.

If he appeared fascinated by the tools of her trade, he seemed positively hypnotised by the historiated initial she was repairing. He stared at the depiction of the Two Trees that filled the bows of the elegantly painted tengwa, frowning at the scratches marring the gleaming gold trunk of Laurelin and the gilded frame surrounding the whole, where a dull pink colour showed.

Tenerië glared at the boy once more then turned back to her work, reaching for a fine brush. Perhaps he'd go away if she ignored him. She expertly applied a thin film of size to the exposed gesso... at least the idiot who'd dropped the book had only knocked the gesso off the corner of the border which made dealing with these scratches much simpler. Barely had she lifted the brush from the page when her other hand had the thin leaf of gold in place. A minute or two's work with her agate burnisher and the edges of the new gold had seamlessly blended into the original metal.

It was only when she reached for the silk to give the gold a final polish that she realised her visitor was still there, a look of awe on his face.

"You fixed it," he whispered, his eyes not leaving the gold and mithril image. "Was it magic?"

Tenerië had intended to order him out of the workroom again but there was something about the way he looked and sounded that made her change her mind. "No, just a lot of practice. Would you like to learn to do it?"

The smile that greeted her when the boy looked up was dazzling in its joy. "You mean, you'll teach me? Oh, yes!"

Before she could say another word, another person invaded the workroom, this one a taller, older boy who was obviously closely related to her visitor.

"There you are, Faramir! I've been looking all over for you. Come along, Uncle Imrahil is almost to the Gates." He reached for his younger brother's hand and started to pull him from the room.

However, Faramir resisted long enough to smile at Tenerië once more and say, "I'll come back tomorrow after my other lessons. Thank you!" before disappearing down the corridor.

The ancient book temporarily forgotten, she stared after him, gaping. "Faramir? Oh, Valar, what have I gotten myself into?"


	2. Fixing Mistakes

Fixing Mistakes

"Oops."

Tenerië looked up from her own work at Faramir's dismayed exclamation. She didn't see a puddle of spilled ink or other disaster but her young pupil looked upset as his gaze met her own. "What's wrong, Faramir?"

"I... I... misspelled Hyarmendacil and now it's ruined! I left out the r and there's not enough room to squeeze one in between the a and the m. I'm _really_ sorry!"

Remembering a similar incident when she was a new apprentice and the horror stories her dorm mates had told her about how strict Master Remedur was about making mistakes and wasting parchment, Tenerië set aside her pen and joined the 9-year old on the other side of the work table. "There's nothing to be sorry about, Faramir. We all make mistakes when we're copying texts. The important thing is to catch them so they can be fixed. Let's see what you did."

"But _you_ don't make mistakes. Edgil said so," Faramir told her, belatedly putting his pen back on the rack next to the inkwell.

"Oh, I make plenty of mistakes." She sat down next to him and looked at the offending word. "I just fix them when I can. Now, why do you think you missed the r? Were you doing the copying letter by letter or were you reading the whole word and then writing it?."

"Ummm... I thought I was reading each letter but I guess I wasn't." The boy frowned at the page.

"I think I know what happened. You know this story by heart--I heard you telling it to your brother the other day--so you were writing it out instead of copying. The same thing happens to me sometimes when I'm copying something I know very well. Now set this aside and when the ink has dried I'll show you how to fix it."

Faramir got up and carried the sheet of parchment over to the drying rack. "Are you really not mad at me?"

Tenerië frowned for a minute at his worried tone of voice then her expression lightened. "Has Edgil been telling you that I'll tear you to bits if you don't do everything perfectly? Don't worry that it's tattling; he tells all the new apprentices the same thing, just like his father told me the same thing about Master Rememdur when I first came here. It's something of a family tradition I think."

Faramir returned to the worktable and nodded. "But he looked really serious when he said it. I really like learning from you, Mistress Tenerië, so I don't want you to be angry and not teach me anymore."

"You don't need to worry about that, Faramir," she said. "Do you know why I'm not angry with you?"

"Not really. I made a mistake."

"And you told me right away that you did. If you had just kept going, knowing that you missed copying the r, then I would have been angry. But by telling me now before there are more words written on the line or the line below, we can fix it easily."

Faramir seemed satisfied by her answer and asked. "Is it hard to fix mistakes?"

"Sometimes. Now, come with me and I'll show you some of the more interesting mistakes and corrections that archivists have made and then you can tell me which of them we should use to fix your mistake."


	3. Cooking Lessons

Cooking Lessons

"_Ewwww!_ What's that stink?"

Tenerië looked up from the iron kettle she was monitoring and hid a smile at the grimace on Faramir's face. "Ink. Or rather, what will be ink when it's done cooking." She dropped another handful of oak galls into kettle. "You wanted to know how to make ink, so come in and take that expression off your face. You don't want it to freeze that way."

The eight year-old shook his head and reluctantly entered the workroom, halting a good distance from the pungent kettle. "It smells like a dead fish. But the ink you use doesn't smell that way."

"Of course, it doesn't. It only smells this way when it's cooking. You'll get used to it." Tenerië told him. "The smell comes from the black sacs of small krakens--."

"Krakens?" Faramir interrupted. "I know what they are! My cousin Elphir caught one by accident when we were fishing on Uncle Imrahil's boat one summer."

"As I was saying." Tenerië gave him one of her best glares and watched as her student flushed with embarrassment then adopted a penitent expression.

"Sorry, Tenerië," Faramir apologised.

"You will be. Come over here. Since you forgot your manners, you can come here and stir this 'stinky' stuff while I get the other ingredients ready."


	4. Saving History

Saving History

**Minas Tirith March 10th T.A. 3019 - early afternoon**

"Stop! Don't take another step!" a familiar voice called out as Faramir entered the Archives.

"Tenerië? What are you still doing here?" he asked instead of obeying the order. "Non-combatants were supposed to have evacuated already."

"And who is going to keep any looters out if everyone responsible flees for the hills?" The middle-aged woman stepped out of the shadows behind the door, a sturdy cudgel in her hands as she retorted. "It's not as if you've been around to do it."

Despite his stress and weariness, Faramir laughed at her acerbic complaint. "Oh, Tenerië, you haven't changed a whit."

"Hmph. Are you just here to pester me or did you come to do some work?" She dropped the cudgel on the floor and picked up a stack of loose parchment, and he finally noticed that the majority of the shelves were empty.

"What have you done with everything? And are you the only one here?" He bent to retrieve a fallen page and handed it to her, meeting her worried and tired grey eyes.

"We're putting everything we can in in the vault. Remedur, Locien and their apprentices are still here. I think they're working on the map room now."

"The vault?" In all the years since he'd unofficially become her student he'd never heard of such a place. "What are you talking about?"

She paused and looked at him in surprise, her fingers automatically continuing to neaten the stack of folios, then comprehension lit her face. "That's right. You never were an official apprentice, so you wouldn't know. Bring that box and I'll show you."

The Ranger's curiosity piqued, he hefted the box in question and grunted under its weight. "This can't be just books, it weighs too much," he complained as he followed her through the far left door and down the corridor that led to the binding and restoration workrooms.

"The ranger's life making you soft, hmmm?" she inquired as she strode past her own workroom and continued towards a plain but heavy door at the end of the hall.

"No," he responded, amused. The sky could fall and Tenerië would remain the same touchy, talented woman she'd always been. "Really, what's in here?"

"The marble bust of Elendil that used to sit over the main entrance. So don't drop it!"

"No wonder you wanted me to carry it," he muttered, shifting his hands so he had a more secure grip.

He waited while she opened the door and then followed her down a flight of broad yet shallow-risered stairs to a landing with two doors. However, she went to neither one but to the third empty wall.

Once more she set her box down and, reaching up to a particular stone directly beneath the lantern that lit the landing, pressed hard. He heard nothing but a minute later she pushed against another stone, this one at roughly his shoulder height and a portion of the wall fell away to the side to reveal a hitherto hidden passage.

"I should make you take an archivist's oath," Tenerië told him as she retrieved her box. "If I find you've told anyone but the King Returned about this, I'll be using your hide for parchment, understood?"

"Will my personal oath suffice?" He had to duck his head to get through the entrance but the ceiling of the well lit passage was easily a good three feet above his head.

"Watch your step. No, I trust you, and that's saying a lot. You never were loose lipped as a boy and you're even less so now, I wager." She waited until he passed her then closed the door.

The vault, when they finally reached it after traversing what felt like miles of corridors and ramps, was a loremaster's haven.

Doors that rivaled the Great Gates themselves for thickness and strength opened onto a space that he estimated to be the equal of the Hall of Kings and Merethrond combined. He stopped and frankly stared at the floor to ceiling shelves that held not just books but sculptures, caskets, paintings, and more.

Tenerië's laughter brought him back to himself and he stepped forward into the room. "If you could only see your face." She had set her box on an already crowded table, one of dozens shoved in between the rows of shelves. "Set Elendil down here, before you do drop him."

As deep as they must have been below the City, there was no hint of mustiness or mildew in the air and nothing appeared to have suffered from moth or bookworm that he could see. He carefully set his burden down next to Tenerië's box and gave in to his curiosity.

The war, the upcoming meeting with his father and Mithrandir, the need to ensure that his surviving men were taken care of, all no longer seemed as urgent or worrisome when right before his eyes were the logbooks of the Nine Ships and a sextant of antique design. He stepped towards the shelf, his hands automatically clasped behind his back as he reverently asked, "Is that... _Elendil's_ sextant?"

"Yes," his former teacher replied. "All the true treasures of the Kingdom are kept here. Most of what is kept above are copies, all valuable in their own right, but merely copies. This is my real charge as an archivist, to ensure that our history, everything that made us what we are, is kept safe and whole."

Struck by the tone of her voice he turned and looked at her.

She stood with her hand against the dark wood of the nearest shelf her expression one that he could only compare to that of a mother with her child. Only now, despite the hours spent under her tutelage as a boy and the years of shared research and discussions when he was resident in the city did he truly understand.

He had a life long love of learning and lore but she had a vocation, one that wouldn't let her go to the Refuges to hide away from the horror that was certain to come.

"I apologise."

She started and frowned at him. "What for?"

"I should never have said anything to you about evacuating. Now, I'm sure you have at least one other ridiculously heavy box your unofficial apprentice could carry down from upstairs..."

He waited while she appeared to consider the matter.

"I most certainly do, and after this I would have to say that you can no longer be termed an unofficial apprentice," she gestured towards the door. "But, no. I must let you go to your duties and continue with my own."

Faramir nodded and after taking another longing look stepped into the passageway. He waited while she closed the doors and then offered her his arm, saying, "I promise you, I'll do whatever I must to protect the City and our past."

Her response surprised him as much as the affectionate squeeze she gave his arm. "I already knew that, Faramir. Somehow, I knew that from the first time I met you."

He nodded, and they continued on down the passageway in a comfortable silence.


	5. Making History

Making History

"Tenerië?" Faramir entered the archivist's workroom and found the senior archivist frowning at the piece of parchment she held.

"Finest quality, my left foot! Master Calechir never saw this disaster--What!" she snapped, not taking her eyes off the offending sheet.

"Tenerië, put that down and come with me." He took the piece of parchment away from her and laid it on the table. "Tearing the ears off Master Celechir's apprentice can wait for a bit. There's something I want you to see."

"I wasn't planning on tearing his ears off, Faramir. I had other portions of his anatomy in mind," she told him. "What do you want me to see?"

He tucked her hand into the crook of his arm and led her from the room. "History."

Pausing only long enough to collect her cloak they left the Archives.

"I have to admit it's a lovely day for a walk, if a bit chilly, but it's certainly not of real historical interest." Tenerië said when she realised they were heading for the gate to the Fifth Level.

"As you have so often told me, your patience shall be rewarded in time." Faramir tried to keep his voice light but as they passed through the gate and turned down the road that led towards the Rath Dinen, he found himself fighting to hold to his task.

He'd given great thought as to how the Crown would be retrieved from the Hallows over the days since Aragorn's victory at the Black Gates, and had finally concluded the only appropriate thing to do would be to go to the House of the Kings himself and take it from where it laywaited on Earnil's tomb.

However, to do that he would need to pass by the now ruined House of the Stewards, where his father's remains lay buried beneath the blackened rubble of the fallen dome. The idea alone sent tremors through his limbs and he was frankly not sure if he could make his feet carry him through the doors into the Hallows, much less fulfill the task that he'd set himself.

It was only when he was about to step out of his room that he'd thought of Tenerië, who had sat out the siege of the City with two other senior archivists and a few apprentices in the Archives--cudgel in hand--to protect the vast collection of books and artifacts from looters and worse. She'd come to visit him in the Houses of Healing a few times during his recovery, even bringing him a copy of the logbook of Elendil's ship, and then staying to tell wryly humourous stories about the work of putting everything that had been hidden in the vault back in its original place.

This was a moment that she would appreciate better than anyone else he knew. Others were focused almost exclusively on the actual coronation and the King Returned.

"Faramir?" She laid her free hand on his arm and turned worried eyes on his face. "Are you well?"

"Not really, but I have something to do and I want you to be there and see it." He took a deep breath and tried to quell his nausea and fear. He actually succeeded well enough to order the doors opened in a fairly normal voice.

The new doorward looked askance at Tenerië's presence but obeyed.

Taking the first step across the threshold of the Hallows was terribly difficult but he managed by focusing on the feeling of Tenerië's hands on his arm and the sound of her voice. She spoke about the belief that the wood of the doors to the Hallows had come from one of the Nine Ships and ever ongoing arguments between scholars over which one it must have been.

Even passing the House of the Stewards was easier than that first step as she kept distracting him with fairly accurate impressions of various master archivists and scholars defending their opinions on the matter of the doors.

As they approached the steps of the House of the Kings, she paused and in an entirely different tone of voice asked, "Better now?"

"Yes, thank you." He gave her a grateful smile then sobered. "Come with me, but stop and wait when I tell you."

She nodded and released his arm, bowing. "I'll do as you say, my Lord Steward."

The Crown was just where tradition said it should be, sitting atop a flat black velvet and silk cushion embroidered with the device of the White Tree surmounted by a crown and seven stars, on the capstone of Earnil's tomb. He didn't need to say a word to Tenerië or the guards for they had stopped a dozen feet away from the finely carved tomb. Reverently, he approached and bowed before lifting the Crown from its resting place.

It was heavy, actually far heavier than he'd expected it to be for all the fineness of its workmanship. He wondered if its makers had designed it that way on purpose; a physical reminder of the burdens and responsibilities of kingship.

He stepped back and turned to find his companions waiting with expressions of awe on their faces. Finally, Tenerië shook her self free of her wonderhead and gave him a half grin. "You aren't planning to carry it out into the streets of the City like that, are, you?"

Flushing, he shook his head. Then spotting a lebrethon chest that stood to the side of the alcove where Earnil lay, he asked two of the soldiers to open it. The chest was lined in the same black velvet and silk that made up the cushion the Crown had resided on for so many centuries. He carefully placed the crown inside and ordered the guards to close the lid and take up the chest.

A half an hour later, he and Tenerië stood at the foot of the stairs to the throne that would, with the Valar's grace, be filled on the morrow, looking at the now polished chest which was guarded by four members of the Tower Guard.

"Thank you, Tenerië. Your being there made this much easier." He still couldn't think of the Hallows without some trepidation and probably always would, but he'd completed his next to last duty as Steward despite his fears.

"No, Faramir," she said, having returned to her usual informal mode of speech once the Crown was safely bestowed in its temporary resting place. "I must thank you. You were right, that was History and for once I was there, instead of just reading about it or copying some eyewitness' description."

Faramir smiled at his old friend as he gestured towards the door to the corridor. "I hope you have already picked out your vantage point for tomorrow. You won't be the only eyewitness, you know."


	6. Spring Rains

Spring Rain

The spring rains had arrived and for once, instead of a deluge that flooded streets and drowned fields, the skies offered a soft steady fall of drops that landed gently on Minas Tirith and the Pelennor. Of course the common folk still complained, but there were hints of humour in the grumbles, since one could generally make it to one's favourite tavern before one's cloak got soaked through and there was no dearth of firewood as the winter had been so mild.

Guard duty was still a misery, though, if one was assigned to an outside post. Even as softly as the rain was falling four hours or more in it left one damp and chilled. Even the stoic men assigned to guard the now verdant White Tree were hard put to maintain their demeanor when they looked and felt as though they'd been swimming the Anduin by the time they were relieved.

Even the archivists, while grateful for the filling cisterns and the anticipated arrival of warmer weather—as well as the fact that, for once, the lower levels of the stacks weren't growing mold on every available surface so they didn't need to do the annual semi-panicked removal of documents to the vault or other inconvenient places—had issues with gesso that wouldn't stick and ink that failed to dry due to the moisture in the air.

Chief Archivist Remedur paused outside Tenerië's workroom and winced at the sound of her curses. Cautiously opening the door, he stuck his head inside and saw his former apprentice glaring at a pile of parchment that lay on her desk.

He sighed; every year it was the same. Mentally girding his loins for the annual encounter, he strode across to the desk, picked up the offending sheets and deposited them back into the box they'd been delivered in. "Enough, Tenerië. You've been here more than long enough to know that it's impossible to get any work done during the rains. So calm down and relax like everyone else. Nothing is so urgently needed that it can't wait three weeks to get finished." He tilted his head and waited for her now ritual response.

"I hate leaving things undone!" Despite her greying hair and the wrinkles that were beginning to appear around her eyes, he could still see the stubborn and frustrated junior apprentice he'd had to reprimand for using foul language over thirty-five years earlier during her first experience with the effects of so much moisture on the tools of their trade.

"Believe me, I know. Now, if you absolutely must do something, you can always help my latest apprentice split cover boards."

Tenerië grimaced and looked at her fingertips, which were stained more than usual. "Not unless you want a lot of kindling for your fireplace." She sighed. "All right, I'll set this mess aside and try to relax. Besides, I have to get this stuff off my hands before I touch something and ruin it."

Remedur led the way to the door and waved her through to the hallway. "What exactly were you trying to do?"

"Oh, I just had an idea." She shrugged and reached for the door latch, catching herself before touching it. She started to curse again but stopped at the Chief Archivist's raised eyebrow. "Sorry. Can you close that? I don't want to get this all over the latch, or it might never open again."

He closed the door and headed up the hallway towards the archivists' quarters. "Well, come along. As soon as you get that whatever it is off your hands, you are buying my dinner at the Leaping Goat as well as some ale."

"Why should I buy you dinner? You make more than I do."

"Consider it a fine for your foul language. You know, if I had a coin for every curse that falls from your lips I could retire this afternoon. Maybe I should start docking your pay."

"You always threaten but never follow through," she retorted with a grin. Their script never varied through the years. She'd buy him one of the Leaping Goat's giant and tasty meat pies and two ales and then they'd dodge the raindrops to go down one level to get dessert at Hénovor's bakery (his pastries were highly addictive and they'd once debated including a dozen of them part of the payment clause of the standard contract for the price of special commissions) which Remedur would insist on paying for.

"Oh, I don't know about that. I told you when you came here that you'd be a Mistress of the art within ten years or you'd be locked up in the Houses of Healing and I'd resign and go dig radishes for my living. You got your mastery in just under eight years, if I recall." Remedur told her.

She stopped dead in the hallway, frowning. "Why radishes?"

"Hmmmm?" He reached for the latch of the dayroom door, turning his head to look at her.

"Why would you have gone and dug radishes? Surely there are tastier things to grow than radishes, not to mention less messy." She wrinkled her nose in disgust. "Ugh, all that dirt."

"Oh, I don't know. It just sounds appropriate, though I hate the things. And speaking of messy, are you going to get that stuff off your hands and take me to dinner or not?"


	7. Promotion

Promotion

"No, I won't do it!" Tenerië stated flatly, her reddened eyes not impeding her glare as she looked round the table at her fellow archivists and the Steward. "I have no interest or desire to be Chief Archivist. Remedur was a diplomat as well as an artist. I may be the latter but am far from the former. The first time the issue of funding for preservation comes up in Council I'll end up offending three quarters of the members."

"I actually think that might be a good thing," Faramir told her. "Master Remedur was diplomatic but he also allowed himself to be walked over with distressing regularity."

"Which is why it took threatening to store the contents of the lower eastern stacks in Lord Agorcham's townhouse before we got the money needed to fix the crack in the wall before the spring rains last year," Master Locrien interjected. "If Master Remedur had stood up for us we wouldn't have risked losing so much of the family histories."

Mistress Baranfel, one of the more recently appointed senior archivists, said, "Considering that a good portion of the Councilors' family histories are stored here, you'd think they'd be more amenable to making sure they're safe."

"I can't take his place." Tenerië insisted, her voice cracking despite her attempt to keep her emotions under control. "I can't."

"You're not being asked to take his place, but to succeed him in the position of Chief Archivist," Faramir's voice held sympathy and patience. "You spoke to me once of having a vocation protecting our history, of being a soldier of words. Think of it as a promotion from Captain to General."

Locrien smirked at the simile. "Does that mean we'll have to salute her? Honestly, Tenerië, I think of the lot of us, you will do the best job at it. And you don't have to do it all yourself like Master Remedur did. You can always delegate, you know."

"You won't be expected to take on everything at once," Faramir added. "There are mechanisms in place to keep things running during the transition. The most important thing is that whoever is Chief Archivist must be devoted to the protection and growth of the Archives." He reached out and laid his hand on her ink-stained one. "I can't think of anyone more devoted to that than you. Will you accept the position?"

"What does the King have to say about it?" She sniffed, a hint of her usual acerbity back in her voice. "I thought he chose the Chief Archivist."

"Oh, he delegated the task to me," the Steward said in a deprecating tone. "I think he figured that I might sway you more easily, given our history."

"Hmmmm." Tenerië looked away from her former pupil towards the empty chair at the head of the table. It looked wrong to not see Master Remedur there, with his wry smile and frequently bandaged fingers and his favourite mug near at hand. Tears spilled over her cheeks as she seemed to feel a familiar hand running through her short hair and her own departed teacher's voice whispered in her ear:

_You'll do just fine, Tenerië. I have faith in you. You'll do just fine._

Scrubbing at her face with her sleeve, she sighed and turned back to her waiting companions.

"Tell, his majesty that my answer is yes."


End file.
